gear on the marble counter where the washbasin was situated and one of those shaving mirrors, the one with one side magnified. I absolutely loathe them as they always show up my chicken-pox scar above my left eye. You guessed it. My parents went through an anti-vaccination phase.
I ran the tap to dampen a facecloth. I wrung it out and sprinkled a couple of drops of lavender oil, which I’d brought with me, on it and took it back to the bedroom.
Matt was still lying in that body-fallen-from-a-tall-building pose. I swear I could have drawn a chalk line around him like in one of those film noir murder mysteries. I gently pulled his arm away from his eyes and laid the facecloth over them. He gave a deep sigh, which made his whole body relax into the mattress.
‘Did you hear that?’ he said.
‘What? Your sigh?’
‘That hiss of steam.’
I laughed. ‘You certainly are running a fever. Do you have a thermometer anywhere?’
‘I have a doctor’s bag in the study downstairs.’
I got up from the bed. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’
I was at the door when his voice stopped me in my tracks. ‘Bertie?’
I turned and looked at him. ‘Yes?’
He opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on, tell me.’
He looked at me for a beat or two. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’
I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth, not quite able to hold his gaze. I’m not sure I knew exactly why I’d come myself. I had acted on automatic, as if it had been programmed for me to walk the block that separated our places of residence and call on him. ‘I know what it’s like to come home to an empty house when you’re feeling rotten.’
There was a little pulse of silence. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for not trying to fill it.
He closed his eyes. ‘Forget about the thermometer. I need to sleep.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
I left him upstairs sleeping and took Winnie out for a walk. I found a spare key on the hall table so I didn’t get locked out. Matt looked so exhausted I thought he might not hear me on my return. Winnie and I didn’t go far as it was freezing but she seemed to enjoy the outing. She stopped at just about every lamppost for a sniff and a minuscule pee, before trotting on to the next one and doing it all over again. That is quite some pelvic floor she has, I thought.
I took her back and fed her and then had a good old snoop around. I love looking at other people’s houses. I get lots of ideas for decorating my own. Well, that’s my rationalisation anyway. Matt’s great-aunt had excellent taste and clearly money was no object. The place was decked out in the most luxurious soft furnishings and the furniture was mostly antique, and not just charity-shop antiques either. I mean real antiques, like centuries-old pieces that were heirlooms that looked like they should be in the Victoria and Albert museum.
But it wasn’t a house I could imagine a young family growing up in. I began to wonder what sort of house Matt had spent his childhood in. Was it like this one, a showpiece of wealth but without the warmth and heart of a house where children’s laughter was always welcome? I wondered too about his older brother. Whether they were close and how Tim’s death had impacted on him.
Was that why he was so driven and focussed on work? His blunt honesty about a patient’s prognosis made a lot of sense now I knew his brother had spent so long in ICU before he finally died. I had seen enough relatives do the long stints in the unit, watching for any sign of change, their hopes hanging in the air like fragile threads that could be destroyed with a look or ill-timed word from a doctor.
That final walk from the unit once a loved one has passed away is one of the saddest things to watch. Some people hold themselves together, walking tall and straight, or putting their arms around other family members, keeping strong for the rest of the family. Others cry and wail and scream in denial and some have to be physically escorted, as they can’t bear to bring themselves to leave. Others look for scapegoats, lashing out at staff or other relatives, apportioning blame as a way of dealing with overwhelming grief.
I wondered how Matt had handled his older brother’s death. Had he stood tall and quiet and dignified or had he railed and ranted against the injustice of a young life cut short? Or had he buried his grief so deeply it rarely got an airing?
He was a complex man, caring and considerate, strong and capable and disciplined, but with a sense of humour that countered his rather formal, take-no-prisoners demeanour. I wondered if he would have turned out a different, more open and friendly person if his brother hadn’t died. His real self was locked away behind layers of grief, only getting an airing when he felt safe enough to let his guard down.
I suddenly wished I were that person. The person he would open up to in a way he had never done with anyone else. Hadn’t he already let me in a tiny bit? He had mentioned all had not been well with his childhood. He had mentioned his father and mother’s relationship. Would he eventually tell me more, reveal more of the man he truly was? I hoped so. I had a sense we could be allies. Our childhoods couldn’t have been more different but there was an air of loneliness … of otherness about him I could definitely relate to.
I found Matt’s doctor’s bag in the study downstairs. It was a beautiful room kitted up like an English country estate library. There were wall-to-ceiling bookshelves and there was even one of those extendable ladder-like steps to reach the top shelves. There was an antique desk with a Louis IV chair and an old world globe. The only modern thing in the room, apart from the electricity and Matt’s doctor’s bag, was a laptop on the desk. I admit I like a little snoop from time to time but I draw the line at reading other people’s emails. Matt’s computer was in sleep mode in any case, but there was a part of me that dearly would have liked to know if he’d mentioned me to any of his friends.
But then I saw a handwritten note lying on the desk next to an old inkwell and quill. My reading speed was faster than my moral rectitude. I was halfway down the page before I realised I was reading something that was meant to be private, but by then it was too late.
Matthew,
It’s your father’s birthday next month. I know you’re not speaking to him after the last time you visited but he didn’t mean it. He’d had too much red wine. You know he can never remember what he’s said the next morning.
Anyway, I know you’re busy but it would be lovely if you’d pop in. You don’t have to stay long. I’m not doing anything too big. Just having a few friends around for cocktails. I wouldn’t want Eleanor Grantonberry next door to think I couldn’t put on a proper do for my husband.
Feel free to bring a date. Are you seeing anyone? You never tell me anything! Isn’t it time you got over Helena? She wasn’t right for you. You’re too much of a workaholic. She and Simon are very happy. Did you know she’s pregnant? The baby’s due in June. I wish you could find a nice girl to settle down and have babies with.
Love Mum x
I sat on the chair and looked at that piece of paper for a long time. I wished my mum were there to do a handwriting analysis. But I could pick up enough between the lines to realise Matt had a complicated background.
And here I was, thinking mine was a little weird.
I went back upstairs with some chicken broth I’d made while Matt slept. I’d found some ingredients in the pantry and fridge and freezer and whipped up my classic cure-all. I set it out on a tray with a starched doily I’d found and carried it upstairs.
Matt opened his eyes as I came in. ‘You’re still here?’
‘I haven’t got anything on this evening.’ I set the tray on the bedside table. ‘Do you think you could manage a bit of broth once I take